The Folly of Two Men
by Gwen's Blue Box
Summary: Mycroft Holmes is a rational man, a man who has distanced himself from relationships, from feelings, but one day, he is painfully aware of that, his love for his brother, engraved into his very being, will be his downfall. This night, when his PA calls him to tell him his brother has been shot in Magnussen's office, may well be the one./Character-studyish. One-shot.


_Another one-shot, because I just adore Mycroft._

_I don't own BBC's Sherlock.  
_

_Enjoy._

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**The Folly of Two Men**

-I-

Mycroft Holmes was a rational man. Logic and reason were the deities he had sworn loyalty to, and he prided himself for being focussed, concentrated, controlled, no matter which circumstances arose. Calm under pressure, not easily distracted and with an extraordinarily structured, brilliant brain.

Mycroft Holmes was, unfortunately and to his full awareness, nothing more but a man. A human being, dependent on hormones, dopamine, adrenaline, on a body that repeatedly proved to be far more fragile than his mind, subjugated to its own weaknesses. Mycroft Holmes was a man, and the frailty of his body - even his mind - were only too obvious to him.

Mycroft Holmes, the invisible player behind the British government, had a heart, a weak and treacherous heart, and regardless of how determined he was to keep it subdued, to silence it, it occasionally proved to be disloyal and led his clearly structured brain into a state of disarray and illogicality.

Mycroft Holmes was a rational man, a man who had distanced himself from relationships, from feelings, but one day, he was painfully aware of that, too, his love for his brother, engraved into his very being, a burden he had carried since he had first set eyes on his little sibling, would be his downfall.

-I-

Sherlock Holmes was a foolish man. He, too, Mycroft knew, prided himself on his detached heart, on his intellect and his ability to let his head rule his heart and not the other way round.

Mycroft Holmes had known his brother since the day he had been born, and if there was one thing he was sure of if his brother was concerned, then it was that this claim, this deception, could not be more untrue.

The exact nature of his brother's infatuation might remain hidden from his knowledge, but this did do nothing to undermine the fact that his brother had become involved, had exposed his fragile heart, that he _cared_.

_Caring is not an advantage. _Mycroft had reminded his brother for the first time after the loss of the family dog, Redbeard, Sherlock's beloved friend until the age of ten.

It had been the perfectly logical conclusion, the only reasonable one to put the dog down who had been suffering from more than simply old age, and yet Sherlock, with his heart on his tongue, had not been willing to accept that, to understand it.

He had screamed, and protested, and cried, and hadn't wanted to see, blinded by his emotions, unaware of the necessity of sparing pain to the precious pet.

His brother's suffering had revealed the limits of his own diffidence to Mycroft, not for the first time, but very thoroughly - when it came to his little brother, in pain or in sorrow, he could not, had never been able to, rely on his mind as he normally did, he could not keep himself detached. His little brother, his vibrant, clever, annoying, reckless little brother, had always been Mycroft's greatest weakness. And, unfortunately, still was.

-I-

John Watson, the reason for Sherlock's latest exposure to sentiment, had called him in the early morning, had phoned him, had informed him, in a very clipped tone he always used to mask his anger and shock as Mycroft had experienced during their very first meeting, that Sherlock was, after years, back on the sauce.

Back on the sauce.

Mycroft, at the age of seventeen, had restricted himself from comforting his little brother after Redbeard's death, had told himself that Sherlock _needed _learn to control himself, his raging emotions that had always, since he had been a tiny boy, threatened to overwhelm him and with which he had always fled to Mycroft - who had, of course, because Sherlock was his little brother, given in, always, had tried to make it all better.

Control.

Sherlock had never learnt how to control himself, had always let sentiment get the better of him. Had turned to drugs, during a time when Mycroft had failed to keep a close eye on his little brother, to heroin in order to calm his mind instead of controlling it. Had replaced his addiction to that hateful substance with an addiction to the adrenaline of solving cases, of investigating crimes and pursuing suspects. And had endangered himself, more than once, had risked his life, and had, in the end, had to disappear for two years, trying to dismantle James Moriarty's network all over the world, just to keep John Watson, his best friend, safe.

Sentiment, of course.

And Mycroft, of course, had done his best to help his brother, to ensure that Sherlock would be able to return to London and his old life, to safety. He despised legwork, the legwork his brother craved so much, always had, and nonetheless, when it came to Sherlock, his resolve always crumbled. Shattered, into pieces, vapourised.

He had gone to Serbia, not even one year ago, undercover, as soon as his informants had reported to him that his brother had vanished, seemingly without a trace, because he could not bear the thought of Sherlock, his baby brother, hurt or, even worse, dead. He had endured the noises, the people, the smell, the legwork, and had found his brother, injured and in chains, but alive, had once more given in to his weakness, because he had to, because his heart was so, so traitorous whenever it came to Sherlock.

And now, after Sherlock had been returned to safety, to Mycroft's hidden relief, seemed to fare well, after John Watson's marriage, his little brother had returned to his old friend, to substance abuse. Mycroft wanted to throttle his brother, for his foolishness, for his frailty, and, at the same time, wished for nothing more but for the ability to pick his brother up, hug him tightly and comfort him, as he had done so many times when they had been children. He couldn't, however, and furthermore highly doubted its success.

But, as it seemed, his brother had not reached the upper limit of his foolhardiness for that day.

-I-

Mycroft was still in his office in the Diogenes Club when his private phone rang.

"There's been an incident in Magnussen's office today," his faithful personal assistant informed him curtly.

He should have known, of course. His impudent little brother had, once more, not listened to him, had gone against Magnussen. His fury at Sherlock, Mycroft was well aware of that, rooted only in the knowledge that, should Sherlock manoeuvre himself into Magnussen's line of blackmailing fire, he would, in turn, expose Mycroft, Mycroft's only weakness and would, of course, endanger himself further. Mycroft could not allow that to happen, and yet had not much to do against it.

"What has my brother done now?" he wanted to know, already closing the lid of his laptop. Had investigated, as Sherlock preferred to call it. Caused trouble, wreaked havoc, as Mycroft chose to name it, more appropriately. If need arose, speed might be of the utmost importance.

Her next words, however, came entirely unexpectedly, and once more hit Mycroft where it hurt the most. "He's in hospital, sir."

Mycroft's controlled calmness, the calmness he valued so highly, left him all of a sudden.

Sherlock.

His mind started to produce theories immediately, theories which only could prove to be wrong because he did not have any data yet. Overdose, possibly, but then, involvement of the incident in Magnussen's office. Thankfully, he had chosen his PA very carefully, partly due to her ability to provide him with necessary information in exactly the right moment. "CCTV recordings show your brother breaking into Magnussen's office and being moved out of it on a stretcher approximately fifteen minutes later," she reported. "One of our sources confirmed that there has been a shooting, and that your brother was the only victim."

Mycroft was familiar with the sensation by now, with the moment when the organ responsible for pumping blood through his veins decided to speed up, entirely against his notion, and fear, irrational, pointless fear, started to flood his body.

Andrea's information was scarce, not at any length sufficient, not qualified yet to allow Mycroft to judge the situation rationally, correctly. And yet, as ever when his little brother was involved, Mycroft failed to maintain his professional coolness. Unnecessary, he told himself, not acknowledging the theories which had begun forming in his head upon hearing the words "Sherlock" and "shot".

Because Sherlock certainly wasn't dying, wasn't in real danger. And the last conversation they had had had certainly not ended with his little brother twisting his arm, high, appalled, close to furious.

"Has John Watson been informed?" he demanded, his voice betraying nothing of his inner turmoil. Not yet, at least.

"He was with your brother, sir," Andrea explained to him. "Both in Magnussen's office and in the ambulance."

Ambulance, of course.

"I need more data," he told her. "Call me back as soon as you have acquired more information on my brother's condition."

As he ended the call, steepling his hands beneath his chin and closing his eyes, a vain attempt to order what little data he had, the image of Sherlock, his little brother, with a bullet wound in his chest simply did not want to leave his head.

-I-

Andrea was quick and thorough, as always, and yet the twenty minutes it took her to phone him again seemed far longer. The nature of worry entailed decreasing one's ability to perceive time correctly, and Mycroft was well aware that this, once his brother was concerned, did apply to him, too.

He was unsettled, he dared to admit to himself, when he answered the call and waited for Andrea to explain.

His little brother, always foolhardy and reckless enough to manoeuvre himself into harm's way, despite all attempts to protect him.

His baby brother, in danger. Once again.

"Royal London," Andrea's voice informed him quickly. "Admitted approximately forty-five minutes ago, gun shot wound to the chest, liver involvement, internal bleeding likely. Unconscious upon arrival, taken to surgery, about thirty-five minutes ago."

For the moment, Mycroft didn't allow himself to connect these medical facts, which might very well develop into a death sentence, with his little brother. "John Watson?" he demanded. John Watson, the man he trusted with his brother's life.

"Still there," she replied. "Would you like me to call him?"

He did not need to think about that. John Watson was a soldier, a man of action, and of moral standards, and he would, no matter how pointless frequenting an empty corridor was, not leave his position. And, he was not unsettled enough to allow this deception, if Sherlock needed anyone, if Sherlock survived and woke, it would be John Watson he would be looking for, not Mycroft. Not anymore. "No," he told her. "Identity of the shooter?"

"Negative," she answered.

"Magnussen?"

"Knocked unconscious," she informed him. "Claims that he didn't see anything. Private hospital."

His fingers were tapping onto his desk, Mycroft noticed, and stopped, immediately. He nodded slowly. "Concentrate on finding something about the shooter. I want someone on Magnussen. Discreetly, of course. And security in the Royal London. Keep me updated."

A pause, because suddenly, he wasn't sure anymore if he could still trust his voice. Oh, Sherlock. "I will take care of the rest myself."

"Sir?" she enquired. "Do you need me to call someone?"

His parents, naturally. Not many people knew about his parents' existence and of the possible second weakness they presented, but his assistant was one of the selected few. "No," he repeated. "I will take care of the rest myself."

-I-

Focussing, staring, at the opposite wall in his office, he forced himself to control, to order his thoughts.

Information. Data.

Gun shot wound.

Chest. Liver. High likelyhood of massive internal bleeding, depending on the exact location of the bullet, depending on the impact, whether the bullet had passed through the body or was stuck in it.

Unconscious upon arrival. Suspicion of internal bleeding confirmed.

Amount of blood the average adult male could lose before going into hypovolemic shock. Shock likely.

Surgery. Repairing the damaged liver, stopping the bleeding.

Liver.

Exact location of the bullet. Liver. Risk of the bullet nicking the inferior vena cava, leading to an immeasurable amount of internal bleeding. Risk of it hitting a rib, splintering it, expelling its fragments to other organs, damaging more blood vessels, increasing the bleeding. Risk of it piercing the heart. Heart.

Surgery. Likely to take hours, at least. No reason to make his appearance yet, to join John Watson's no doubt frantic pacing in one of the hospital corridors, out of his mind with worry.

Possible outcome?

Possible outcome - impossible to predict correctly. Depending on exact location of the bullet. Liver involvement: good prognosis, high chance of survival. Liver involvement, inferior vena cava nicked: slim chance of survival.

Slim chance of surival.

The cigarette Mycroft lit with not entirely steady fingers did nothing to ease the worry, the so familiar worry for his baby brother, nor did the glass of brandy.

-I-

In his own way, Mycroft assumed, he was a foolish man, just like his brother. His brother's folly was his absolute devotion, regardless of its particular nature, to John Watson as well as his negligence of the emotions that had always threatened to consume him, and Mycroft's own… Maybe it was his trust in his brother, his trust in Sherlock not to get himself killed years too early, maybe the fact that he had never, never in his life, been able to distance himself from Sherlock, to stop himself from caring, from, for once, loving. Chances were, of course, that Mycroft's downfall would once be a combination of both.

It took an unforeseen amount of composure to stay in his office, behind his desk, instead of calling his chauffeur immediately and ordering to take him to the Royal London, to the hospital in which his baby brother might, for all Mycroft knew, be dying in that very moment.

If he had only had the slightest hope that his appearance would make any difference, he would have driven there himself, as quickly as possible.

It would not, however, as wouldn't worrying, but whereas he could help the former, not even he could control the latter, despite his own mantra, his credo.

Sherlock Holmes, his little brother, managed to pierce through his iron composure far too often, and, even more disturbingly, always did so because of being in danger, endangering himself. This time, Mycroft was fully aware of that, he might have gone too far, and his latest involvement in Magnussen's business might very well cost him his life. His life.

He was a rational man, and yet he was a _man_, with a weak and human heart in which Sherlock had managed to find his place, and had not disappeared again. He was a man with many resources at his hands, a man willing to go undercover to extract his brother from capture in Serbia, willing to do legwork to secure his brother's survival, a man who had done what he could in the past years to keep his sibling safe.

And now he found himself powerless, faced with the possibility of Sherlock dying. He had not been able to prevent his brother going against Magnussen, from being shot, had been surprised by Sherlock's quick actions, could not do anything now.

Mycroft Holmes was a very powerful man, the most powerful and dangerous man in the United Kingdom, as his brother liked to tease him, and yet utterly helpless.

Today, this knowledge refused to leave his mind, might well be the night that he would lose his little, defenceless brother.

Mycroft Holmes, the Ice Man, as Irene Adler had referred to him, did have a heart, and tonight might well be the night that it would break. That night that it would break, despite the physical inability to do so.

John Watson probably spent that night pacing in a hospital corridor, out of his mind with worry; Mycroft spent the night in his office, smoking more cigarettes within a few hours than he had in the weeks before, waiting, anxiously despite his efforts, for the call he had been dreading for his entire life.

The call did not come that night, and since no news were most likely to be good news in this situation, Mycroft phoned his chauffeur when the clock struck two in the night, and prepared to face the truth.

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_Thank you for reading. Any thoughts?_


End file.
